


The Smoker You Drink, The Player You Get

by hanwritessolo



Series: You and Me and The Bottle Makes Three [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: The moment you realize you're in love with Gladio, you need a voice of reason—stat. Unfortunately for you, it doesn't exactly go as planned.





	The Smoker You Drink, The Player You Get

The night is still young, and so is your realization that you’re hopelessly in love with Gladio.

It wasn’t exactly an idea you entertained. Sure, he’s your best friend, and you enjoy spending time with him and talking about nonsense shit until four a.m.; never mind his occasional visits in your office just so he can gush about his favorite book, or the little notes that he leaves your desk to motivate you when you feel your shittiest. Aside from your grandma, he’s the other person you run to for a solid advice or for a good cry from a stupid break-up. Nothing out of sort—best friends always do things like that.

And yes, he knows the in’s and out’s of your head; and he might not be aware of it, but he holds the key and the map to the labyrinth of your mind because all he ever does in it is to run around gloriously, seducing your thoughts into his possession from time to time…

Now, best friends don’t normally  _feel_ things like that, and your closest co-workers know it better—they’ve suffered enough of your lingering stares, seen enough of your less than subtle hurtful wincing when Gladio talks about another girl, and watched enough of you and Gladio acting like a married couple when the both of you are not even close to dating.

Which is why moments ago, they have decided to give you a tender and loving intervention for your own damn good.

As the night rolls along and they proceed to butcher another pop song with the karaoke machine, you nurse your fifth (or is this the sixth?) bottle of beer, trying to drown out all thoughts of Gladio. By this time, you haul yourself up and fail miserably—you feel your world spinning in a slight haze—but you steel yourself and make your way out of the karaoke booth, on to the neon-bathed streets, and planting yourself on one of the cold benches in the sidewalk just outside the building.

You fish out your phone and fumble through your contact list, searching letter  _G_ for your grandma— _Faith, Fitz, Garrett, Gladio_ (ugh, nope—not this time around, big guy), _Grandmama,_ there!—for a much needed rationality to be beaten into your head. You hurriedly press her contact name and clumsily shuffle the phone close to your ear. She picks up after the second ring, and you didn’t even let her say anything—

“Hi, sorry to call in this late but just hear me out—” you hiccup, and you try to sound as clear-headed as possible while the words keep spilling right out of your mouth— “I just need a voice of reason right now so please don’t be mad at me. Y’know Gladio, right? Well, it sucks now ‘cause he’s my best friend and I like him. Not just like, but like  _like_. Okay, I’m maybe downplaying it, but I might be  _in_ love with him, which sucks even more hairy balls. And I’m so fuckin’ scared right now ‘cause I know he won’t see me the way I see him, and now that I have this knowledge, I’m afraid everytime I see his stupid handsome face, and his stupid bird tattoo, I would die a thousand fuckin’ deaths. And Grandmama—” you choke the steaming tears out, you’re sobbing now and it’s ridiculous— “you always say that I always go for the safer side of things, and right now hate is safer than being in love and  _shit_ , I don’t want to hate my best friend—” you gag and vomit both your sober thoughts and your alcohol-drenched portions of dinner in one pool of mush, and the sour taste of acid lingers in your tongue. “Okay, that  _was_ disgusting—”

_“Where are you?”_

The voice on the other line sounded so different and yet so familiar, too deep and stern to be your grandmother, and you feel like you’re hallucinating or just really plastered drunk at this rate. “Uh, you don’t sound like Grandmama—”

_“Idiot, it’s Gladio. You’re drunk. Now where are you?”_

“Wha—” confused out of your drunken wits, you check your phone and holy shit.

Gladio’s name softly glowing in your display screen just about confirms it.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

A round of applause for your drunk ass that just had to dial the wrong contact name.

And  _Gladio_ , of all people.

Still on the line, you hear him say:  _“Hey, stay where you are and I’m coming right over—”_

“Nope, Gladio—I’m okay. Bye.” You quickly hang up, turn off your phone, and propel it off the other side of the bench as if it was a bomb about to explode.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

That was enough to sober you up. At least, a little. You pace back and forth; that phone call has got to be the most idiotic thing you’ve done in your life and you pray to the Astral Titan to open up the ground and just drag you to the deepest crevices of Eos.

The minutes droned for what felt like years, each second spent overthinking the friendship you just ruined and the days you’ll probably have to spend without Gladio.

And life without Gladio, just the mere idea of it, is a pain you didn’t have the strength to endure.

As you are about to return to the company of your friends, your name echoes out in the street coming from a voice you know like the back of your hand.

There is Gladio, running towards you, all beet red; he stops a few feet away from you, all hunched over, trying to catch his breath.

Did he just run all the way here to get to you?

“How did you even know I was here?”

He huffs, still breathless. “So easy to track you when our mutual friends on Facebook have been posting all your photos with a location tagged on it.”

“Huh, good thinking—”

“Let’s get you home and have you sobered up first, alright?” He gently offers, trying to avoid your gaze. Like he was trying to get rid of the fact that you just embarrassed yourself moments earlier.

“I think I just did that after I retched everything ten minutes ago,” you bite back, annoyed. Here you are expecting him to face you and all those things you said over the phone, but here he is, standing in this freezing pavement with you, swerving around the subject.

“I can’t believe you called me your grandma,” he says, breaking that short deafening silence. You were supposed to appreciate his joke, but it’s one a.m. and you’re tired and hungry and braving one emotional hurricane that any of his jokes right now will piss you off to your grave.

You sigh wearily, and you hope to any Astral listening that you don’t break into tears. “And now I can’t believe I said  _all_ of that.”

“Did you mean all of it?” He asks, almost too casually. He’s now getting on your nerves.

“Of course I  _fucking_ did,” you screech, “do you hate me this much to mock me?”

“Yes,” he says coolly, and your heart drops; finally his blazing amber eyes meet yours, and you hope he could see your heart slowly disintegrating into tiny smithereens.

You were ready to walk away when he says, “Because I can’t believe you beat me to it.”

“Beat you to what?”

“Gods, you’re so fucking dense sometimes—”

He marches in two big strides to close the gap between you and pulls you into a kiss so fierce like he was desperate to breathe again, and you’re the air to fill his lungs.

“You’re gross,” is all you manage to say when he pulls away.

“What?”

“I taste like vomit.”

“Don’t care,” he says, smiling from ear to ear, his lips still ghosting yours. “I ached for you for years. And now baby, I’m all yours—and you’re mine.”


End file.
